So those with a keen might be all, "Hey, this dude had Black Flag bars on his arm .. but .. only one got inked. What's the what stuff?"
So that is a picture from about, let me think about this. Tick tock, add the one, subtract the two, divide by half. So probably seven years ago? That would be about three years after the death of my older brother. He had Krones disease, which a lot of people have. But here's the kicker. He was diagnosed with it when he was probably five years old or so?
So things go bad in males particularly when they have Krones from a young age. Why? Well it's an intestinal disease that is technically an auto-immune disorder. The immune systems attacks the inner lining of the intestinal track, causing inflamation and ruptures. Discomforting and painful, bloating, generally just something you don't want. But in males? Well. It can jump.
Jump jump. And it jumped. Then it jumped. Then it jumped.
It went from the lower intestinal tract to the upper. Then to the colon. They tried to cut it off at the pass and just whacked all of that out of him and gave him a stoma and a bag. Cross fingers. Jump. Liver.
End game.
Three years older than me. I'm older than him now. Jump.
Liver in assault. Swollen, attacked, breaking down. Stints to by-pass, keep that thing going. Just make it work. Okay, forget working. Just make it so the blood goes through. Infections where the white cells can't reach. Anti-biotics. More anti-biotics. Jump. Jump. Work it hard folks. Figure the puzzle. Pieces are slipping onto the floor. The picture isn't working anymore. Jump! Fucking jump.
Jump.
Then it was no more jumping. It was quiet. I drove home quietly from Chicago to Cleveland. I had class at Graduate school. We said we loved each other, he told me to go and hit the books. I told him to go and hit the fucking walls. And I drove home. Quietly at three in the morning for class hours later.
Jump.
I drove from the family house to class. Tired. Rubbing my eyes and chain smoking. I was rubbing a necklace while I drove, it was a the butt of a shell casing from a 00-buckshot case. A double-aught not. We both wore one. The double-aught not brothers. It was a joke. Neither of us had ever fired a gun before. Technically neither of us still have fired one. But that was the thing. Double-aught not. Play it out as a joke and you'll figure it.
Call comes through, I answer it, blaring throughout the car cutting out me listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees. I wasn't sure if I was listening to them or punishing myself. My mother's voice is really loud. "We're coming home." I'm driving and logic kicks in, rhetoric kicks in. I'm and English major in grad school. Pretty simple dissection. "We're?" "You father and I." "Both?" "Yes." "Why?" "We'll talk when you get home." "Okay. Love you. Bye." Click to hang up.
Knuckles white. Jump. Focus on the foot. Jump. Stare at double yellows. Jump.
Participate in class. Jump. Pretend like a care. Jump. Ride elevator. Jump. Climb in car. Jump. Drive home. Jump. Get handed the match to my necklace.
Jump.
So.
I swore to an oath. Which returns us to ink.
Between my brother and I two bands could never do ill. We would see them until we were on our death beds. Black Flag and Avail.
Four of us would get the bars. Not all the bars. Just one.
I hacked the game and got four Black Flag bars. Only one was filled in. The others are left blank.
To be filled in. One for the mother. One for the father. The final will be myself.
Ink'splanation. Why only one bar?
One for the fallen.
One for the never forgotten.
One for the most hardcore person I've ever known.
One for my brother.